


309 Westbound to Main Street Station

by ArmsShanks



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lowkey depression, M/M, contemplative horseshit that also includes jamie and mako meeting on a bus, god what do i tag this as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 18:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15443595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmsShanks/pseuds/ArmsShanks
Summary: Mako takes the bus to work every day.





	309 Westbound to Main Street Station

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes ya just wanna make the words without much plot.

Someone’s listening to music really loudly. Mako sighs and turns the white noise from his own headphones up. The track blocks out the usual hustle and bustle of the morning bus. Considering it’s a six-thirty am route, it’s usually enough to be excessive. Mako realizes he’s read the same paragraph five times before he notes he can still hear the music and it’s sticking with him because it’s awfully familiar. He feels himself trying to place the tune, but it’s difficult when all he can glean is the drum beat and some vague instrumental screeching.

He shoots an annoyed glance up across the bus. There’s a scrawny shit manspreading across the three handicapped seats that face the centre of the bus. Mako’s expression turns sour. There’s only a couple other people currently on the bus, nursing starbucks cups or drowsing off against the windows, so it’s not too serious an offense. It still irks him though.

The rude stranger’s head turns and Mako immediately looks back down to his book, not wanting to be caught staring.

The song switches, and nothing itches at the back of Mako’s memory, but it is still incredibly annoying. He sighs softly, closing his book and pulling out his phone to switch from the white noise track to his own music. It blocks the tinny sounds and he can at least relax for the rest of the forty-five minute drive in peace.

 

\---

 

The music’s back again the next day. Mako’s grey eyes dart up at the sound and his face twitches into a scowl. The young man has slouched back onto the handicapped seats somewhere between 45 and Main and is bobbing his head slightly to the erratic beat of his music. Great; so this must be his work route. Perfect. Wonderful.

Mako tries doggedly to keep at his book through the noise. The odd tune catches his ear and he resigns himself to making an instrumental playlist that he should be able to read comfortably to for future rides.

What a fucking inconvenience.

 

\---

 

He’s ready and set with a playlist later in the week. The obnoxious young man seems a staple of his ride now on most days, much to his chagrin. It’s been two weeks and each day the miscreant drags himself onto the bus into the same spot. One morning Mako wakes up to a dead battery on his phone and he curses himself. He can’t find his spare portable battery and the bus will be coming any minute so he has to go without.

In his haste he hadn’t even brought his book, so his eyes are up to see the stranger get on this time. He’s shockingly tall, which Mako had never picked up from his posture on the seats. His gait is an unusual thump, tink, thump, and Mako notes for the first time a flash of flourescent orange at the man’s right thigh. It must be a prosthetic, judging from the weight and sound of it. The man has at least some of an excuse as to why he’s taking up the handicapped seats, but he appears to be able to walk just fine.

Mako now gets to spend approximately half an hour listening to shitty second-hand music.

The ride feels much longer than normal. A dusky orange melts into blue amongst the yellow lights of the big city. Traffic chugs along on either side. The city is still a murmur of its future self once day comes fully.

It makes him miss his childhood home on the coast where you could see for miles and the air smelled salty and the humidity clung to your skin. There’d been no jobs there though, only ghosts to escape.

He can appreciate the city; it certainly had its own beauty, but it’s not the same. There is something novel about the view he usually avoids, but he’s still bored. His gaze intermittently drags back to the man with the orange leg and terrible posture. His hair is a dusty, dirty blonde and sticks up unnaturally. His clothes look baggy and worn, like he had to buy too many sizes up just to fit his height. A matching orange arm indicates he may have had a rough go of it, and Mako feels just a bit bad for wanting to smash his stupid head against the window for listening to music so loud in a public space.

Mako can’t help but wonder what he does for work. He thinks he sees a safety vest tucked in a shredded bag but he can’t be sure. The man’s fingers are slender as he occasionally taps away on his phone.

Something in the air feels heavier and it’s with a disgusted beat that Mako realizes the man is staring back at him. His eyes seem too bright to be real and Mako is trapped in an awkward stare down; he can’t turn away in embarrassment, he has too much pride for that. So he stares, stone faced, heavy lips and brow indifferent to the world around him.

The man lifts up a hand, phone still in it, and waves his fingers in a cheeky hello. The grin on his face is too-wide and his other hand, the prosthetic one, remains draped against the window and back of the chairs. It’s almost unrealistically casual and Mako’s only response is to snort and roll his eyes, before looking back out the window.

He doesn’t look back for the rest of the ride. The music drones on.

 

\---

 

Mako’s head snaps up when it finally, _finally_ clicks.

He’s put up with the idiot on the bus for almost a month now, and he’s even gotten used to the stupid music. Every so often some hint of it will strike familiar and this time, this time he can put a name to it.

It’s an old punk band. Very old. The lead singer came from the city ten minutes from where he grew up in small-town coastal New Zealand. He used to go to their shows when his knees weren’t bad and he had enough spare change for recreational drugs. Memories of sweat and smoke come back to him viscerally and he remembers being twenty and part of a crowd larger than himself with fresh piercings rubbing uncomfortably against the fabric of his shirt.

He snaps back to the present as another passenger laughs loudly on the phone. A new song is playing now, which he can catch hints of between the conversation. Now that he has some measure of context, he can easily recognize it as another classic Australian punk song. It must have been released before this kid was even born. The lyrics about overthrowing the government teased the tip of Mako’s still tongue.

The woman on the phone gets off the bus and Mako listens to the music with his eyes closed. It sounds godawful through the clunky headset the other man is wearing but he lets nostalgia wash over him.

There's a tap on his shoulder some time later and he starts. The retreating hand is orange and shiny.

He looks up into a toothy grin.

"Think ya missed your stop, mate."

The lanky bastard continues walking past Mako’s seat and out the rear doors of the bus. Mako’s eyes dart up to the LED display of the street names. Shit, he did miss his stop.

The bus is already moving again by the time realization sinks in, and he refuses to run after the idiot on the same stop. He texts his boss to let work know he’ll be late, gets off at the next stop, and crosses the street to take the next bus back.

 

\---

 

Mako wakes up to an email asking him to work a double and his heater had apparently broken down in the middle of the night. He’s not in a particularly great mood when the man with the garish prosthetics gets on the bus, and the lack of other passengers on the crisp, Sunday morning allows the final straw to tip.

“Do you ever shut that shit off?”

The volume of Mako’s growling voice in the vehicle almost surprises him. Somehow, the man hears it over his music and he tilts his head, pushing his headphones down. “What was that, mate?”

Mako takes a breath. “I said, do you even consider that maybe some people just want a quiet ride to work in the asscrack of morning, and then they have to listen to whatever trash you feel like inflicting on them?”

The man tilts his head even further. “I’m half deaf, mate. S’the only way I can hear it. Don’t got much else to do.”

“You’re half a lot of things,” Mako spits out before he can think better of it.

The man’s strange amber eyes widen and for a second Mako mentally curses himself at the slip, worried he’s caused real offense, Cackling hyena laughter peals out from across the bus, snapping him out of it.

“Hooley dooley, you really went right for it!”

_Who the fuck says ‘hooley dooley’?_

Mako’s not sure if he should apologize or double down, so he goes with his most natural reaction, which is to say nothing.

“Aww, you were so full of piss and vinegar mate, what happened?”

Mako’s lip curls. “Just… shut up and turn the damn music down.”

If the kid says anything else, it’s drowned out by Mako turning his own music back up. He refuses to let his eyes leave the seat in front of his.

His double shift sucks.

 

\---

 

A pair of days pass where he isn’t assaulted by the music, but it’s only because the man’s not there. Mako has a good enough idea of his schedule now that he knows it’s likely just the weirdo’s weekend and he shouldn’t get his hopes up that he picked another bus route. On the third morning, as the bus stops at 45 and Main, there’s the familiar _ka-thunk, ka-thunk_ , but before Mako knows it, someone’s sitting down beside him on the nearly empty bus.

“What the fuck,” Mako snarls, voice low.

The strange man is wiggling around, trying to get properly situated. It’s difficult when Mako’s size takes up a seat and a half.

“Ehehe, cozy!”

Mako pins him with a withering glare. Once he’s settled, the man looks up at him with a grin on his gaunt face.

“Well, if I’m not allowed to listen to my music, _someone’s_ gotta entertain me!”

His toothy smile is all feigned ignorance and plaque. Mako detests it and his stomach does something weird.

“I’m not entertaining shit,” Mako growls. He regrets speaking up the other day as the man beside him reclines and crosses his long legs out into the aisle.

Mako twitches to shove him off the seat, but he refrains as someone else gets on the bus. He doesn’t want to get thrown off the vehicle if the idiot raises a stink. It wouldn’t look good on the security cameras for him to be pushing over cripples.

He settles for pulling out his book and turning up his own music in the universal sign of “fuck off” in the transit world. He only makes it a couple of paragraphs before he becomes distinctly aware of the man leaning over to look at the pages.

Mako wants to smack his long nose with the paperback so hard it hurts.

It goes on for a minute in which Mako makes no progress down the page; he hates how often this man has that effect on him. It must radiate out like some kind of aura. “Sorry for the lack of pictures,” he snarls, eyes not moving from the book.

“I already finished it, if ya wouldn’t mind turning the page so we can move along that’d be aces.”

Mako feels his face heat and his eyes involuntarily twitch to the man, who is looking at him with a barely contained cocky grin. Mako reacts by shoving the book back in his bag and crossing his arms; he really doesn’t need to read the development of romantic tension with a stranger at his side.

“Aww, do they root eventually? I thought they had good chemistry. From the whole hundred words I got-”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Yeah. But _someone_ didn’t like me shutting up and listening to music like a good capitalist drone on my way to work and just _had_ to call-”

Mako pulls the cord and shoves past the man who nearly falls out of his seat. The stranger’s bravado is replaced, quite uncharacteristically, with embarrassment. The lanky man seems cowed as Mako gets off the bus a whole fifteen minutes from his workplace.

Orange eyes watch through the window; Mako ignores him. His face feels hot in comparison with the cool morning air and he stands outside on the side of the street, fuming.

The shame of his rash action hangs over him like a cloud, but slowly breaks up in the light breeze that blows over the sidewalk. Traffic is just becoming regular, but the air is fairly vacant of its usual mishmash of honking and loud, muffled music. An old man sits in the bus stop with a newspaper that rustles softly. Mako breathes in and breathes out and the fresh air feels good in his lungs. He misses the scent of sea salt on the breeze, but the bakery down the road is making something extra garlicky this morning and it’s something.

Mako tries not to think about how he’s an adult who can’t handle an annoying stranger on the bus. He thinks instead about the garlic and the murmur of distant conversation. He watches fluorescent lights flicker on in an office ten stories up across the street. He watches a fat pigeon pick at scraps around the trash bin.

The next bus putters up with its diesel and its hissing brakes and Mako gets in. He rests his forehead against a window and his breath fogs up the glass.

 

\---

 

Mako refuses to be late another day because of his own immaturity in dealing with other human beings so he gets up in the morning, much like he always does, and gets on the bus. He’s definitely not grumpy about taking the same seat as always and not making an effort to deter intruders. He’s definitely not anxious when the bus rolls around to 45 and main. He definitely isn’t boring holes in a book that he has no interest in that includes no sliver of romance that his aunt got him once thinking he’d like something with a dragon on the cover-

“Oi…”

Mako does respond.

The bus hisses and then rolls on. Mako refuses to look but he hears the clack of a prosthetic grip a nearby vertical bar so its owner can keep his balance.

A throat is cleared. “Jus’ wanted to say eh… that I’m sorry? Didn’t mean ta make ya uncomfortable. Was just messin’ around. Me friends tell me my flirting style leaves a lot to be desired and they’re probably right. Anyway, sorry fer gettin’ carried away. Ta.”

Mako becomes, somehow, even more stone still as the _ka-thump, ka-thump_  meanders away and the man takes his usual place near the front of the bus. Eventually, music starts up, but it’s quieter than he’s accustomed to hearing from those clunky earbuds.

A nearly catatonic Mako barely manages to get off at the right stop.

 

\---

 

He performs terribly at work that day. The monotonous task he is given is absolutely worthless for clearing his head of this strange revelation. _Flirting? What the fuck?_ The apology alone had been unexpected but… that?

Maybe it’s a joke. Mako doesn’t dislike his own appearance by any means, but he is well aware he isn’t the average person’s typical taste. Neither is the other man. Popular consciousness likes tall men. They like blonde men, and they like thin men. This one though is drawn just a bit too long and stretched. His eyes are sunken and his jaw is crooked. He’s just a bit too wild and unorthodox.

He’s managed to pick up on Mako’s complete lack of straightness, somehow. Or maybe Mako is reading too much into things. He’s reading too much into everything. Working mechanically in the dust and gravel leaves room for little else.

He is so bored. He hates this. He wants to go back to the sea. He wants to drown out the sounds of echoing construction equipment echoing against skyscrapers under the waves while his ears pop and his hair swirls around him. He wants to open his eyes and feel them sting and burn in the salt just to feel _something_.

Mako walks home and does not make it until the sun is nearly down. The city swims around him in drops of change into outstretched coffee cups and leashed dogs. Vehicles and people flow through the streams around him, faster to their destinations.

He gets home, he showers. He goes to bed.

 

\---

 

The weekend is quiet. Netflix and breeze through an apartment window. Conspiracy documentaries in 4k. Tap water kept in the fridge beads condensation on the coffee table. His couch hugs him.

 

\---

 

Mako gets on the bus at 18 and Main. He sits down on the stretch of empty, blue-seated chairs that make up the handicapped section. He lays one arm against the back and holds his book with the other.

He does not look up when they make it to 45, even when a bark of laughter greets his ears. He does crack a hint of a smile though, as the main with half his limbs makes his way to Mako’s usual seat in the middle of the vehicle. Mako manages to cover a chapter today.

He feels bright eyes on him as he gets off at his stop.

 

\---

 

It becomes a game.

Mako listens loudly to the same band the other man does from his seat.

The other man flops down on the stretch of blue seats, feet and all.

Mako leaves a specially purchased book for children about manners and hygiene on the seats to be discovered.

The other man strolls in the next day with lens-less reading glasses on, nose deep in a novel whose cover promises hardcore erotica.

It goes back and forth, day by day. The other man wears as close to a replica as he can of Mako’s usual work outfit. Mako returns the next day with a thrift store shirt that hardly fits reading “I’m with stupid.” The other man cracks up. Mako shrugs and says “It was the closest they had.” They do small things, each more subtle and pointless than the last. They don’t enter each other’s space. They don’t really talk. Mako gets off at his usual stop. He goes about his day.

At work he thinks about what to do for the next ride. When he goes to bed he looks forward to the  _ka-thunk_ and that awful hyena laugh.

He dreams and there’s something sparkling like fire under the waves.

 

\---

 

It’s a Monday. That means the man and his prosthetics and his pranks won’t be out today. It’s been almost two weeks since they started this mess, and Mako finds a little light gone from his day without a stupid gimmick to start the day off with. He gets on the bus, he takes his usual seat, and he pulls out his usual book.

He finds himself able to concentrate for once, so tied up in digesting the text that he doesn’t notice when someone gets on at 45 and Main.

He does notice when they sit down beside him.

Mako nearly jumps and the not-so-stranger laughs apologetically. “Sorry! Sorry.” He holds up a cup of coffee. Mako hesitates just for a moment before taking it.

“Ya look tired a lot, thought it might be a nice start to yer day.”

“Mm…” Mako doesn’t know what to say or what to feel, so he uses the prop he’s been given to busy himself. The coffee is good and the brand on the side of the cup is a rather upscale place on this street. It must have cost a few dollars.

The man fidgets, painted fingernails tapping on the back of his metal hand. The silence stretches and Mako feels that old awkwardness creep up his spine. He should probably say something.

“Thanks.”

He’s rewarded with a wide grin, which quickly falters into something a bit more subdued. “Soooo, eh, I know we obviously got on the wrong foot awhile back. But this thing we’ve been doin’. It’s… nice.”

“Mm.”

“It’s nice to just have fun. World’s so fuckin’ boring. Work’s so fuckin’ boring. This has been nice though. I like seein’ you every day. You’re smart. And gorgeous.”

“I’m just a construction worker,” Mako interrupts, mechanically.

“Pfft, so what?” The man waves his metal hand. “Anyway, if ya wanna stay like this, I’d be damned happy to. But I just.” He screws up his face, eyes darting like he’s trying to think back to a memorized speech. “If yer not interested, it’s fine, tell me and I promise I won’t ever bring it up again. But I would love ta maybe see you… y’know… outside of this publicly funded tube on wheels. Grab coffee. Or something. Y’know?”

Mako can’t help but look down at the coffee he’s currently holding. The other man stares as well, and then smacks himself in the forehead.

“I’ll…” The man mutters, “I’ll just go back to my seat.”

Mako grabs his arm as he gets up.

The metal is surprisingly cool. The orange paint on it is just a touch rough, like the metal underneath it has been left to rust on purpose. It’s a nice contrast to the warm cup in his other hand and he likes it.

“What’s your name?”

The younger man blinks, then he gives a hopeful little titer of a laugh. “Jamison Fawkes.”

The stranger has a name. The awkward arm grab turns into a handshake. Mako lets the smooth, cool feeling rest preciously in his large hand.

“Mako Rutledge. There’s a vegan place I like up King and West, if you’re into that.”

Jamison’s face lights up. “’Course!”

Mako smiles. It’s an unsteady thing, and it probably looks as awkward as it feels on his broad, heavy-set face. Jamison must find something in it though because the morning light between the buildings reveals a hint of red on his cheeks.

Mako almost misses his stop as he finds his voice in the mundane, explaining to Jamison what route to take to the restaurant. Jamison clings to the vertical pole and memorizes his words.

The sky is that bright, pale grey sort of cloudy when Mako gets off the bus and heads to work. The buildings reflect the gleaming neutrality of it all in rectangular panes. The smell of a nearby food vendor mixes in with a breeze from the East. He can hear steel drums from a few blocks over. Mako takes a breath.

It’s not so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to practice self care. Take time to get out of the house. Things will pass.
> 
> Thanks to [Thyme-Basalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyme_Basalt/pseuds/Thyme_Basalt) bae for betaing.


End file.
